Max and Noah are getting on with things. They have their own version of work. It is very intense. Today, the trees need petrol to keep going.
There is a pipe buried at the base of the tree. They place a piece of bark over its lovely mouth and stare at it.
‘Petrol in there.’
They squat, and stare at the piece of bark and the pipe, more thoughtfully.
Suddenly they rise up and go for the hose, drag it, grunting, panting. It is too long; it’s heavy and it knots its stomach and argues with their small feet. But they yank and wrestle it into place, refusing to give up.
Then they place the nozzle into the pipe and it fits. It is not a tree. It is a train.
And the water cooperates, a beautiful cold flood that darkens the ground and makes them briefly examine their feet. They check the bower, check the nozzle, check the fuel, crouch and stare, absorbed in the small heaving fountain. Noah taps the tree on its spindly shin. He says, ‘Done.’
Max agrees, ‘Turn off.’ But they can’t. The work is too important. They can’t leave it, the tap is too far away. They remain with the train, stroking its hot roaring flank, loyal and possessive…